


The Threating Three

by Wolf_The_Swordsman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Armor, Beating, Blood, Blood Loss, Bows & Arrows, Cousin Incest, Death, Deception, Epic Battles, Falling In Love, Fights, Fire, Hope vs. Despair, Incest, Kings & Queens, Kingsguard, Kissing, Loss of Parent(s), Love, Love Confessions, Multi, Princes & Princesses, Quests, Starkcest, Swearing, Sweat, Swordfighting, Training, True Love, Unrequited Love, Wolf Pack, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 23:45:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12178830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_The_Swordsman/pseuds/Wolf_The_Swordsman
Summary: Two hundred years prior the Targaryen's find the Starks to be a substantial ally in every aspect. From their honor to the stubbornness to quit. An ally never to second guess but to keep nearby. Among the Targaryen's their princes and princes whom will never become kings or queens join with Starks to keep the allegiance strong for years. While these same wolves and dragons are grown to be the warriors for their houses. To learn every aspect of the other's movements. To not fight as two or there, but one. Jon, Arya and Sansa are raised to be warriors, hard and without surrender.





	The Threating Three

The Threating Three

Summary- Two hundred years prior the Targaryen's find the Starks to be a substantial ally in every aspect. From their honor to the stubbornness to quit. An ally never to second guess but to keep nearby. Among the Targaryen's their princes and princes whom will never become kings or queens join with Starks to keep the allegiance strong for years. While these same wolves and dragons are grown to be the warriors for their houses. To learn every aspect of the other's movements. To not fight as two or there, but one. Jon, Arya and Sansa are raised to be warriors, hard and without surrender.

Also this chapter is meant to be out of context. Set deep in the story.

Jon gradually treaded down the stairs, one at a time, the shadows cast decrypted to come into view. Lower and lower descending into the depths of his fate, it wasn't his cousins he anticipated to see but Ser Gerold Hightower with several knights beside him. The large burly man waited in his white armor, two men on his left and two on his right. The image was that of his worse fears come into fruition.

On the run for weeks the men had finally caught him in his tracks. Days upon fleeing his home with his cousins, just only they escaped with their lives. And now the sun ran through the windows over the five knights in Targaryen armor. Their faces masked with shadows pouring all but the kingsguard, Ser Hightower with his longsword. They stood static, blocking the front door, blocking his way out of the large lobby of the hotel. Hands on their hilts waiting, several paces away from his position.

"It's over, Jon." Ser Hightower stated, his voice a low hum, as if nothing was eerier. Jon felt that rage course through him. All this chaotic death from his uncle. This agony and wrath, the inexcusable death of his parents, his uncle, his grandfather and blamed on him. All for his uncle, Viserys Targaryen to be a king.

"I did not kill my grandfather." Jon stated. Ser Hightower took a step forward his weapon drawn.

"That may be the case." The knight kept his morbid tone as he raised his sword directing it to Jon. "But you are a usurper, the king knows better than any. You selected the wolves over your kin. And you know, you will pay for that. The gods will frown on you." Jon gazed at the man, the air seemed thin. "So. You can die and rot without a grave, here. Or, you can come with us."

"And die." Jon shot which caused Ser Gerold Hightower to simply nod.

"Perhaps." He stated. Jon knew his options, back to kings landing was certain death for him. Instead he selected the latter, which was in the best case scenario, a quick death.

With a stance he kept his ground, ready for his final last stand. His cousins still in mind, he would never see their faces again. That thought was worse than death he was about to experience. "You know, I met two of your kingsguard on the road, Ser Whent and Ser Crakehall. They thought they could best me… I left them for the crows." Ser Hightower feared this, the men had remained on the road for days and certainly not returned.

Jon pulled Blackfyre from the hilt leisurely, the sound of steel scraping on metal. The sound an answer to the question, the sound prepared for what was to come. Upon the weapon meeting the air the first man charged, with a few steps raising his weapon above his head, ready for the quick kill. Upon the man reaching Jon, before he had a chance to react, a heavy blow struck the man. The wet crunch was heavy and repulsive to the ears. With a single swift swipe, Jon cut the man diagonally, clean through from shoulder to hip. The valaryane steel sliced the man in half. His body fell to the floor with a thud, no yell or scream, blood spurting from his veins. The dragon's eyes never faltered but simply waited for the rest of the men.

With the image held in their mind, they took a step back. An eerie silence hung over the scene. The knights looked down at the man, his blood cascading over the wood towards them, the blood trying desperately to reach their feet. The only sound that carried over was the men breathing hard from the scene. Ser Hightower stood unfazed, he had witnessed enough death and blood to toughen him beyond compromise. With a step forward he knew his place, for this boy to die. "The sword does not belong to you traitor! It does not belong to your wolves! Grab him. grab him!" He told and the three men and they charged Jon at once.

Ser Hightower stood back watching the sight as the first man to reach the Targaryen aimed with a stab. It only took the first pass for Jon to realize only one was highly skilled. Deflecting a quick slash intended to disembowel him by the first man, Jon wheeled to intercept a hard swipe at his chest from the second. The young man answered with a stab of his own intended for the first man, cutting the first man's windpipe. Blood shot across the room in a stream, the man stumbled back, dropping his weapon. He fell to the floor, rocking back and forth, his hands clutching his neck. His breathing threatening in as he wheezed over the ground. His groans perpetrated through the room as the others continued to fight in the background.

Jon spun around just in time to parry the third's attack. Their swords rang in rhythm. The remaining two charged him. He caught the second blade with his own, cutting the blade in half. Without a thought Jon brought his dagger up from his sheath and struck the second man's chest. The thick wet sound ran as the man fell back collapsing into a table, the dagger deep in his heart.

Turning his attention back to the third he brought forth his sword, cutting through the last man and into his cheek, cutting his flesh and into his skull. The men peeled over on impact to the death and to the ground. With the four dead Jon turned his attention to the kingsguard. Jon felt that adrenaline back again, to be honest he missed it. Being bread to fight. The long nights of punches and bruises toughened him and his cousins.

Unpredictable to him he found the man his arms at his chest, waiting unfazed. "Good to see you kept up with your training." He said as the man with the blood ridden windpipe finally died. In turn the groans died away.

"I've had plenty of practice." The knight couldn't help but smile. He took a single step forward settling himself.

"Well, looks like this is it." The man said as a cold whisper with a nod to himself, standing.

"You're as good as dead."

"Dead?" He smiled brightly. "I couldn't resist to toy with you, Jon. Besides these men were simply here to wear you down. You're as dumb as I thought." As he said this the sound of footsteps rang as if they were a stampede, a storm that had come to swallow Jon whole. Beside Ser twelve men came through the large doors, as if from the woodwork the men in heavy Targaryen armor. Jon watched as the men drew swords and rounded on him. "Too bad for the dragon and his wolves." He mocked and the many men charged.

On the far side of town-

Sansa was on the move, no time to evaluate the situation. The moment she caught the noise of the sword ringing in her ears, she knew. With a heavy heart she distinguished what the noise meant.

In her heavy armor she moved with a bustle, her long hair tied back. Among a small passage, towards the hotel for the past few minutes she ran, her heart pumped harder, breathing unbreakable. Her legs a blur as she moved with a swiftness, feet pounding against the ground. The feeling of her heart pumping hard was paramount. Not from the lack of oxygen but for her love.

Back on the road leading towards the town was found to be only occupied with ghosts. Rounding a corner she halted, the dust floating up around her with the unwelcome sight. Breathing constantly Sansa caught a glimpse of a lone figure standing among the road. A single woman on a road meant for twenty. In black and red armor with long sliver hair she waited. Closing the distance she found Aemma Targaryen a dagger in each hand, a simple smile to put it all together.

"Hello, traitor." Her voice filled with a venom.

"Get out of my way!" Sansa's voice a quake. The dragon merely smiled and shook her head.

"Oh. Are you worried?... Why? Because your beloved is about to fall." She mocked with a devious smile. She only assured her worse fear, her fingers wrapped around the familiar hilt of her weapon, ready. Her dragon would not die.

"Move! Or you will feel this blade sink in your chest!" She roared the blood rushing through her. The Targaryen stood her ground spinning her daggers in either hand.

"You'll have to get by me first." As she said this she took a few steps closer. "Poor Sansa. Little Sansa who could barely fight… You were always such an incompetent fool. A fool about to lose her precious dragon… And to think a dragon would want wolf filth like you. You and your sister disgust me. Our blood is meant to be pure, not stained with wolf blood."

"Shut up!" She yelled filled with rage. Sansa drew Dark Sister, the gift her cousin bequeathed her before the mayhem. Those years she would never forget. Without question the two charged the other headlong. Reaching her much disdained opponent Sansa slashed at the Targaryen's chest. The woman easily answered deflecting the blade, reacted and stabbed at Sansa's midsection. Sansa backed away from the slash, yet it caught her armor. The mail enough to keep the blade from her flesh.

The two backed circling the other, and charged again. In rapid succession the sounds of their blades ringing. Keeping on the Bout Sansa came at her opponent aggressively holding nothing back, knowing she wasn't fighting for just herself, but her cousin as well. Her blade moved too swiftly for the eye to follow. The Targaryen retreated under the bout, the blows were too much for her small blades to sustain. Each strike Sansa brought her weapon with vigor, the weapon crushing down on her enemy.

After a few passes the two backed away again. The sweat apparent on their faces, but the energy flowing free. Sansa stood straight her sword before her and her mind at ease. Gazed at the sword, still feeling the anger for her nephew. "That sword. That sword has been in my family for hundreds of generations. It was never meant for you, filth. It was intended for a dragon, not some revolting wolf, that one of my kin is too dumb to fall for… But I don't have to worry. In the immediate future that sword. Will become my sword." She stated with a confidence.

"Bitch, you don't have a future." Sansa declared. The Targaryen lost herself and rushed toward Sansa recklessly, her daggers trying to meet the wolf. Ducking under the assault Sansa reversed.

Sansa had observed Targaryen's moves back in kings landing. Her attacks never crisp. Always no effort in her training sessions. She cast-off a rage and that was never a thought in her swipe. The unusual weapons scarified reach for speed and maneuverability.

One of the daggers sliced upward opening a gash in Sansa's cheek narrowly missing her eye. With the blood pouring down her exposed cheek she kept her blade firm in her hands. Their was no time to think as her enemy bolted in. The two met, her sword against the Targaryen daggers, the two at the other's face for a moment. Her enemy was too close for Sansa to bring her sword to bear effetely. All she could do was butt with her head, sending her brow forward, smashing her head into the Targaryen's face. There was a wet crunch as the cartilage of her enemy's nose crumbled beneath the impact.

The Targaryen faltered screaming completely taken off guard. She pressed her hand to her nose. Anger etched her face as blood seeped down her nostrils, lips and chin.

"You fucking, whore! You fucking bronze coin, whore!" She yelled and charged again, let loose. The woman had let slack of all sense, anger in her movement, no thought. Sansa kept her ground and waited dodging with a pace. The daggers moved on her, but Sansa moved in tandem. Waiting for that exact moment to strike just like her sister or her cousin would.

Finally the enemy overextended her reach, Sansa's sword under her enemy's arm. Sansa brought her sword up with force, ending with a clean swipe of the dragon's wrist. With a clean cut of her wrist, the hand flew across the wind and ending into the dirt, the hand still clasped around the hilt.

The wail that sounded was deaf to the ears. The Targaryen backed away, the dagger dropped, screaming out for no one to listen. The Targaryen fell on her back, grasping her left arm with her right hand, blood squiring from the wound. Sansa watched with intense eyes. Every mock the woman gave, every day of horrid names. In her training pain was just another weakness below her. Holding her sight, Sansa brought her sword up.

With Arya-

She progressed up the stairs towards the hotel where the swords clashed. Moving as silent as a snake, slithering up the steps making a sensor and vision scan to confirm that there were no threats close by.

The arrow was enough for death to assume but still she pressed on. The excruseating pain nothing that of what would come if she did not reach him. Moving up until she finally rested at the doorway. The result, her cousin midst a battle with men surrounding him. A clash of dragons. The hotel smelled of sweat and death. Her eyes scanned as a wolf finding her prey looking at the nearby man, it was the kingsuard standing still, watching her cousin.

With a lock on her prey, she moved with a determination. Without question a dagger in hand. Behind the man with power she forced the valaryan dagger deep in the man's back, sheathing the blade in his attire with a slick sound. Blood spat from his mouth in a spew froth. Feeling the sharp sting in his back, his voice cracked as he stumbled reaching for the hilt of his weapon. Before he could react however he felt the dagger penetrate his body again but this time in his spine and with a twist, the dealt of intense pain was too much for his body to take. With his hand on his weapon he fell to his knees, his breathing heavy trying to catch the air that was fading from his lungs. Arya finished with the dagger imbedded in his head. The man became pale and fell to the ground with a thud, blood pouring from his wounds.

Jon-

Men laid on the ground. The hotel a complete hell-hole, littered with bodies.

From the original thirteen only three men remained. Jon being one of them stepped back having been in the heat of battle with a dozen men. Weary was without question from the nonstop onslaught. A few cuts masked his body but he felt none of it. Only two of his enemy remained, yet his sword laid several feet from him. The two men trapped him, he was caught off guard without his defense. His body moved back, scrambling for a weapon to use. The men grinned, their feet moved slow, savoring the last moments of the kill.

"We've been looking for you for some time." They elevated their weapons, ready to strike. Jon recognized the end before him. With their weapons above their heads, about to let the death spill. Jon took one final breath. Before they had a chance to attack however dark crimson blood spilled from the man to his left. As the right turned back he found only a sword to greet him across his chest. The wet chomp sounded throughout the hotel. The two men fell simultaneously. The first man with a small dagger in his back as he slumped over. The other stood dropping his sword, a blade propped from his chest dropping to his knees, dead.

Looking up Jon found the welcome sight of his cousin, standing in her leather. Even in the blood she was always beautiful to Jon, with her hair slicked back and her complexion still. With more than a dozen men dead or dying, they shared a smile. His smile was so easy to come with her.

With a smirk she staggered, blood concealing her stomach, something was wrong. A grim thought washed over him. Gazing down he found a sight that caused the world to halt, in all it's momentum. The whole image sent a shiver of deep dread down his spine.

An arrow stuck out from her stomach, blood oozing from her body. Time seemed to stretch in that moment, his eyes darted to her, his mind racing. Losing her balance she fell forward. Before the ground reached her, Jon caught her wrapping her close. With her body limp Jon held her close to his chest.

"No, no! Arya." His voice caught at his words looking down at her, blood covering the two. "You can't die, not by one or a thousand men." Her eyes gazed up seeing the boy that she met all those years ago. Still those days were apparent in her mind. That time in the alley, when he came to her aid. Or the day they spent at the top of the tower together. The night in the forest when the leaves were green and the stars bright, no one but the two of them. Her head laid next to his, remembered that look, the gleam in his eyes and that smile. So bright, unlike any she had seen. Never once did she feel like she could fall with him by her. He was always there, never a beat, never a miss.

Pulling his head close to her. She smiled, her hand raised pressing to his cheek. He was her family, her cousin and she loved him. The warm cheek pressed to her fingers, a familiar touch, she knew him better than any. "I knew this would end, at some point…" She told without the fear of death.

She thought of the only thing to say. Even with death closing in she needed to say it. What is it about those three words that can turn her stomach into a butterfly convention? That can make her heart flutter till she's sure it's about to stop? Just three simple words and they have the power to make her hands shake and her knees tremble. The only thing that mattered in this shit. Looking into her cousin's eyes. "I love you."

Several years prior-

The young seven year old stood deep under the red keep. Without a shirt, only a white cloth over his waist. Before him a man stood, Ser Gerold Hightower. The large man aimed his foot for the boy. He quickly leaned out of the way, the foot missing him. Backing away he charged the burly man, but before he could reach him he felt the leg swoop his own. Sending Jon to smash against the floor with a hard thud.

The floor rushed up to meet Jon slamming against the ground. For only a second he laid there, the pain must not deter him. Pressing his hands to the floor, he would never give up, struggling to stand again. After several hours the man had beaten him to a pulp. Bruises covered the young boy's body, dark and purple. Rhaegar stood near and came in close helping him up.

"Act in haste and you give the advantage to your enemy." Rhaegar explained. "Sometimes the proper and more difficult course is not to act. Even the greatest warrior often fails to wait until the moment is right before striking out. That is a mistake we cannot afford to make." he nodded absorbing his father's words and commuting them to memory. Words were a single part of his training, the few bruises covered his naked body were lessons he must learn if he can succeed. Each punch another lesson until he can conquer his enemy.

Without knowing the king came to halt at the door. In his wealth he stood inspecting his grandson whom he loved more than his own son's. Aryes saw the young man with potential.

"Why are you among the pits?" He directed the question to his grandson. Upon the question Jon turned to his grandfather and lowered his head.

"Training, grandfather." He answered.

"I can see that. You should be donning your armor. Your cousins are to arrive in short time. You do not want to make a bad impression, you are to look noble when you finally meet them." He declared with his fists clenched. Jon nodded as he felt a pit in his stomach. He knew what this meeting meant.

I thought of calling Jon, Aegon. It's funny because the name fits this story. What I am exactly writing, Jon is to be like Aegon the conqueror. But I thought aren't their already enough Aegon's? I don't know, I can change it later.


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